I’M HOME. I WAKE UP PROFOUNDLY GRATEFUL. THE THOUGHT CROSSES MY MIND THAT I DON’T HAVE TO DO A SHOW TONIGHT AND I SMILE OUT LOUD [WHAT?—ED.] I PUT AVALON ON THE CD. BRIAN FERRY LOUD IN THE MORNING? I must be joyful. What no Haydn, no Bach, no Pondicherry? The clear bell tones of the classic opening and the drumbeat kick in.
“More than this there is nothing…”
It’s still early and I resolve to finish my diary before the live football (soccer!) match beams in from England. Shadow, Tania’s big German shepherd, comes in to lick my face.36 He is very happy to see me. It’s mutual, though I don’t lick his face. Bagel, our beagle, follows. I let him out for a poop. Back to my job of dog-poop attendant. Yesterday Bagel smiled all day. I made him the happiest dog in the world when I arrived off the bus out of the blue at six in the morning. He went nuts. Three months gone, he must have given me up for dead. He beamed all day. Nice to be a dog’s Christmas present.
Last night we returned to L.A. in triumph. We had to hold the curtain for twenty minutes as the walk-up line was so long. It must have been because of the very nice piece in the L.A. Times. The house was packed and warm; the dressing rooms placed conveniently close so we can hear one another as we make up.
“I’m going to really miss you all,” yells Jen in a blatant attempt to solicit emotion.
“Shut up, you stupid old bag,” I yell, to cheap laughter from the boys. There is a fine joyful spirit abroad that cannot be denied. The traditional gifts are exchanged. Larry Mah turns up beaming and presents me with a fantastic book of his eight-byten photographs from the tour.
The show goes even better than we could have expected. We are tight and trim, and they are very responsive. Hell, it’s our forty-nineth gig! We could set this show down in a Star-bucks parking lot and still get laughs. But it’s really nice to be appreciated in your hometown. Skip has determined there will be no signing after the show.
“This is L.A.,” he says.
Instead they have set aside an upstairs bar area for the hundreds of people who simply have to go backstage at any L.A. concert. There are complicated degrees of wristband which ensure that some people are denied entry. This is very important to those with the correct wristband. Everyone looks like they have just escaped from hospital. After I successfully pass through the lines of happy yelling Python fans and listen to a heartbreaking story of bereavement from a recent widow and her son, Olivia Harrison is the first person I see. She opens up like a flower and gives me a huge smile and hugs me. It’s so great to see her looking happy. I know she had a good time before she even tells me. She is with her sister Linda and they have been remembering with glee the George story that I tell onstage. Olivia clearly remembers George preparing to set me up for the great Indian gag that he pulled on me. (Shag a sheila for me!)
By the way, this is yours,” I say, handing her a package of $3,000 in cash that we have collected from the encore bucket. We decided unanimously that the money should go to George’s charity, the Material World Foundation. It feels appropriate. George has been present in my thoughts onstage every night, and these are clearly his royalties from “The Pirate Song.” Tonight I almost choke up as I speak of him, while mentioning that Liv is with us, but I manage to hold it together. Of course I’m not ashamed to lose it in public anymore, but a blubbing comic just ain’t entertaining. So I keep it all positive.
The L.A. audience broke the encore bucket record with $208 in cash in our big gleaming bucket. The most generous cities were L.A., Spokane, and Boise, and there was a surprisingly generous crowd in Davenport, Iowa. The least generous was San Luis Obispo. The wealthy are always the tightest. And of course the Canadians, who hold on to their loonies with a very tight grip while freely donating a fortune in tire dollars.
At the party Garry Shandling is beaming. Positively glowing. He looks me in the eye and says very nice things indeed, but I can tell from his eyes I’ve done well. Alan Zweibel is impressed by the writing and the shape of the show. Dave Mirkin hugs me and says he loved it. Jeff Lynne compliments me. Ian La Frenais gives me a big kiss. He, too, has had a great time. He acts proud of me. These are the compliments that count, from the boys who know. Doris, Ian’s wife, is totally over the top.
“I had no idea you were this good,” she says! “I never saw you live before.”
The Greedy Bastard is in ego heaven. The admiration of strangers is one thing, but the admiration of friends is what it is all about. We, after all, do it for our peers. Geena Davis is beaming and bearing twins. She is with her very cute husband. They came to see us last time in San Fran and they say they had a good time again. Peter Asher is looking fit and well and thin and he enthusiastically tells me how much fun he had. He was very encouraging to me on this tour. Maybe he doesn’t even know it, but his advice was really useful to me. He advised me to move away from the Python sketches format and exploit my own speechmaking skills. This was excellent advice at just the right moment, so no wonder he has been the manager of so many great people.37 I’d ask him to manage me in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for the fact that I really value his friendship. Plus as a friend he can’t charge me for the advice. …I know it’s a heresy in this town but friendship is far more important than business and hopefully ours will survive to our memorial concerts. I hope he has to sing “Always Look on the Bright Side” before I have to sing “World Without Love.” I am tired of saying good-bye to pals. Though of course I promised Lily I will live long enough to dance at her wedding. It’s going to be an interpretive dance …a cross between Martha Graham and Twyla Tharp.
It’s really great to be back home. From the simple joy of luxuriating in a bath to just sitting down and staring at the curtains. I am looking forward to becoming a bit of a slob and kicking back in my private pig heaven while being spoiled rotten by my womenfolk. They are all very proud of me, and that should last at least two days.
After our show there are tearful good-byes in the parking lot of the Henry Fonda Theatre. Final hugs from Jen and Gilli. Manly farewells to John Du Prez, off home to England. Cheerful good-byes from our drivers, ’Lish and Mike, immediately heading off to Florida. Marc the hairdresser-agent turns up and is catching shit from his goy wife for not being home to light the first candle on the menorah. I tell him it doesn’t matter, he’s an agent, he’s surely going straight to hell anyway.
There is a fond farewell from a sad Peter, who is outside the stage door with all his baggage, waiting for a ride.
If you have enjoyed ourselves half as much as we have—then we have enjoyed ourselves twice as much as you! Good night.38
“I’m just off on a three-month tour with Terry Jones,” he says, smiling bravely, but I know he is really going to miss all this.
Saying good-bye to Skip isn’t easy, either, but I guess Mrs. Skip deserves a crack at his patience and abilities for a while. Everyone is muttering about other dates, other places; there is a genuine reluctance to say farewell. Half a dozen dedicated fans linger in the parking lot. A few scribbled autographs, a couple of flashes, and it’s all over.